


A Changing of the Tide

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Education, Gap Filler, Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Logistics, Natural Disasters, Original Character(s), Paperwork, Reading, Rivers, Suspicions, floods, monasteries, or at least as historically accurate as I could make it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"It may also please you to advertise my lord his grace that since his repair to Richmond I have been at Lesnes, where I saw one of the most piteous and grievous sights that ever I saw, which to me before the sight of the same was incredible, concerning the breach out of the Thames into the marshes at Lesnes, which are all overflowed and drowned."</em> </p><p>--Thomas Cromwell to Stephen Gardiner, January 18, 1529</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Changing of the Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aramley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/gifts).



> Extensive notes on research and historical accuracy (or lack thereof) follow the story. Thank you to [Thimblerig](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig), Dad, and Vicky for beta-reading and general good advice!

January 1529: he is at Lesnes Abbey, up to his ankles in muck. Before him brackish water swirls through the breach in the river embankment, past the wreckage of the sluice gate. It spills eagerly into the low, soft land of the reclaimed marsh like a traveler too long away from home. The drainage ditches that should be within view have long since vanished under the flood, and with them the pasturage and tillage they guard.

"Where are the workmen?" he asks.

William Harrys, who administers the former abbey's lands in the cardinal's name, pulls his brows tight like a hat pulled low against the thin, wavering rain. "Home, waiting to be paid. Which I cannot do until his grace sends funds."

"You covered the difference yourself three years ago," he says. "Why not do so again? His grace would make good the expense now as then."

Harrys grimaces further, as if he would like to object to that logic but finds it impolitic.

He looks across the muddy, seething flood that spreads hungry fingers across the levels: south toward the abbey, west toward Plumstead and Woolwich, east toward Erith. He thinks, I have seen the bloody waste of war, seen ruin caused by men, have seen crops rotting in the fields, seen storms at sea, but never anything quite so senseless as this. Nature's wrath and human folly make a bad marriage. "Be that as it may," he says, "surely any man can see that if the breach remains his own lands will shortly drown as well. What's a week or two of labor set against that loss?"

"They say the breach is a judgment from God, that the money they paid for maintenance was wasted, that the cardinal should give back what he stole from their monks," Harrys says. "That's what they say. Around here. And you can't get them to do anything, even good and sensible things. They just stand around and watch, hating and cursing."

"Do they," he says. He thinks, Harrys, what are you doing that people still think that way four years on? Or rather, what are you not doing? He says, "I'll have to convince them otherwise. Give me two days. No, three; I'll stay until the work is well begun."

He turns, begins slogging his way back to the higher ground of the embankment that pins the ebb and surge of the Thames within its channel. Harrys follows, coat drawn tight against the icy winter rain.

Behind them, the breach widens in a slithering rush of earth.

\-----

He is staying with William Harrys in the old abbot's lodging, the only part of the abbey itself still standing complete. The other buildings have been pulled down to various degrees, though with some the difference is hard to tell. At least now the tumbled walls serve some useful purpose, the stones sold to other, newer building works and the profit returned to the cardinal's college of St. Mary's at Ipswich.

Harrys keeps a small household: two clerks, a local widow who serves as cook, and her young daughter, between Anne and Grace in age, who does whatever work she can manage. Those whom he, Cromwell, has brought with him more than double the souls under the roof, to the point that the grooms and clerks must bed on the floor of the hall. Small wonder Harrys finds the management of these lands difficult, with a dearth of good men to aid him.

He thinks, a skilled estate manager is expensive to hire. If I replace Harrys, it would be better to select a local man with a head for figures and some knowledge of letters and have him trained up by men I trust. For one, that man already knows the land and its character, and for another, it neatly turns aside the notion that the cardinal and his college are alien, indifferent masters.

"The monks didn't maintain the embankment themselves," he says as supper draws to a close. "Who in the villages most often leads the work when repairs or improvements are needed?"

Harrys looks toward one of his clerks, who gives a handful of names.

"Have them brought here tomorrow morning to inspect the breach. I'll stand for their wages."

Harrys and his men lighten immediately. He thinks, how much will this cost, that Harrys was so reluctant to cover the outlay himself? The cardinal recompensed him more than handsomely the last time. Perhaps he dislikes the idea of waiting. The cardinal is a busy man, even more so now with the king's great matter churning murkily onward with no end in sight. He has no time to read every piece of daily business when it arrives, no matter how urgent those who submit their pleas consider their own causes. And Harrys has few business interests, no cases or retainers, to tide him over the lean stretch; or at least none that have prospered.

"How fast will the breach expand, do you think?" Rafe Sadler asks.

This is only the second time he has brought Rafe out of London on his work for the cardinal. It's a hard business: foul weather, variable lodgings, cold food, all the people you meet eager to load you down with excuses or accusations. But there is no better training in the hard reality of the world, and all the twisty in-and-out of court and law and paperwork. To his credit, Rafe complains little and has a penchant for disarming turns of conversation. Those who are prepared to hate him, Cromwell, are often less so to spit curses at a fresh-faced young man, still not quite old enough to set up a household of his own.

Harrys shrugs. "The breach is in God's hands, as he moves the change of tide and the fall of rain. But all the land to the north was under water before the monks began to drain it. There are tales that the first abbot fished from the walls of this very house."

"Presumably it will withstand the river's return, if necessary. But let's keep events from coming to that extreme," he says. "His grace would be most displeased should these lands and their worth be lost to his college."

On that note, he excuses himself from the hall and turns to his other work. He has no time for floods and embankments. He has far too many letters and deeds to draft, edit, and have copied in a clean hand for Wolsey to sign and seal when he joins the cardinal at Richmond. He'd intended to arrive there tomorrow, but that's out of the question now.

He asks the cook for a candle and seats himself at the desk in his borrowed room: not nearly as overfurnished now as when he made the first survey and list of the abbey's land and possessions, but still a fine, large space. He wonders what Liz would have made of Lesnes, of its decaying magnificence, of its dissolution. Johane may joke about his reputed treatment of monks, but Liz said nothing against his work for the cardinal. The suppressions were in service to a good cause and she considered letters and figures as necessary a skill as any merchant's daughter. And she knew that he turned no monks and or postulants out onto the road for vagrants, the way the common story goes. Unlike those who believe the cardinal's tales, his construction of Cromwell the cold-hearted, Cromwell the hard-minded, Cromwell the wild and half-criminal mercenary restrained only by Wolsey's kindly leash, Liz knew him and would laugh at such tales.

But he finds himself thinking of her hands on the pages of her book of hours, tracing the prayers, and it is a long moment before he shakes the memory aside and sets to work.

\-----

The morning breaks clear and cold, the sun a white-gold crescent promise on the eastern horizon. Frost traces over the windows and coats the ground. A dozen men have gathered in the lee of a half-dismantled wall, stamping their feet and chafing their hands for warmth.

Harrys needs a larger house, he thinks, someplace where he can invite his borrowed tenants in for meat and drink. An open hand at the right moment goes a long way.

He offers his name, listens to the men give theirs in reluctant return.

"My thanks for your time," he says. "Now, I don't need to tell you what will happen to your lands and livings if the breach is not repaired. Nor do I need to tell you how to repair the walls and ditches, or build new sluice gates. You know all that better than I could hope to. What I'll tell you, instead, is that I will cover wages for your labor."

"But not for maintenance. We tithe, but there's no pay anymore for anyone to walk the walls and fix the gates before they rot and rust," says a tall, pox-scarred man by the name of Bledding, who has been named master of the works by his fellows. He thinks, best to go gently with this one. His trust or distrust will set the mark for the rest.

"The monks paid," another man says.

"And his grace the cardinal will pay now, through me," he says. "As for the maintenance, I'll look into it. The cardinal heard nothing of the matter, or he would have turned his attention your way sooner. Anything you want to make heard, tell to me or to my clerk here, Rafe Sadler. We'll pass your words along."

"Ha! Pass them right along to hell," Bledding says, to general amusement, but the gathering is alive with a new sense of purpose. The men look north toward the river and huddle in small groups, voices loud and intent as they argue about wood and hinges, shovels and sacks, and how many men each village owes to the work at hand.

"Will we truly take their complaints to the cardinal?" Rafe asks him under his breath.

"No," he says softly. "His grace has enough on his mind, and what does he pay me for except to manage this sort of business? I'll sort through them myself and see if there's any weight to the accusations, or only dislike of change."

Rafe looks at the dismantled walls of the abbey, at the winter-brown grass already growing through cracks in the stone floors. He looks north toward the breach and the flood. "How many monks lived here?"

"Six or seven," he says. "Not enough to keep the holy offices. Definitely not enough to properly administer their lands. Half these buildings were abandoned before the abbey was suppressed, and I'd wager if I checked the records, I'd find more years without maintenance work than with. I grant Harrys hasn't done much better, but he could hardly do worse."

Rafe looks again at the former abbot's lodging, then back at the ruined halls. "Are you sure? He certainly can't offer a roof to as many people."

He is surprised into laughter, catches it between his teeth before the sound draws attention their way. "True. Very true."

He thinks, taking Rafe into my household was one of my better decisions. I agreed as a favor to Henry Sadler, but in the end I've had the better part of the bargain. Or perhaps Rafe will end as the true victor. It makes no matter. Here and now, he couldn't feel any prouder if Rafe were his own son.

He wonders what Gregory would make of Lesnes, of the sullen villages, the broken banks, the decaying abbey ruins. He is surprised to find that he has no answer. His own son is more a stranger to him than the men now heading off toward the river and the breach to survey the damage with their own eyes. He understands them in sum, if not in detail; they are much the same as the men he knew in Putney before he fled abroad, or the men who seek his service as a lawyer and mediator every day in London. But Gregory is a mystery.

He thinks, was I such a stranger to Walter, in my time?

It crosses his mind to wonder what Walter would have made of Lesnes. Most likely cursed the monks and Harrys alike, and taken a swing at half the repair party to boot. Would he then have lent a hand to rebuild the earthen wall, or forge hinges for a new sluice gate? He thinks, well, that would depend on the wages, wouldn't it? And how much he'd had to drink.

"I should write to London about arranging payment. A week's worth, at least. These things are never done quickly," he says. Then he ought to go observe the work, ensure that nobody shirks or declares things hopeless without case. But can he spare the time?

"I'll go watch how they get on," Rafe offers. "It's as good a chance as any to hear their grievances, and I'd like to learn how the water is pushed out."

He claps him on the shoulder. "Good man. You know where to find me if there's need."

\-----

The clerks, both the two who work for Harrys and the two of Wolsey's staff he has brought to check their accounts and bring the tithes and reports to the cardinal for his college, have ridden out to assess the damaged tillage and pasturage. The abbot's lodging seems somehow smaller without them, as if human voices pushed the walls outward and now the cold is pushing them in. Did the monks feel this same constriction as their numbers dwindled? Or did they feel they had shrunk and the walls had grown?

He arranges with the cook, one Judith Greene, to roast a sheep for the workers when they return. She hesitates, then says, "Master Harrys has no sheep. He couldn't hire anyone to mind them."

"Then buy from whoever is willing to sell," he says.

She hesitates again, gnaws her lip. "He won't like it. The accounts, you see," she says. "And he says nobody will sell to him at reasonable prices, nor to me neither since I took his offer of work and board."

"I'll stand for the expense. And for the wool, if you wish," he promises. "Do you know anyone willing to ride to London with a letter?"

She does, for a fee. He pays that too, and notes out the window as one of his grooms escorts her eastward toward Erith. She is awkward on the borrowed horse, an ill-balanced, odd-shaped package, thickly wrapped against the cold.

He needs to find a better man to manage the abbey lands, or double his efforts to sell them and invest the profits elsewhere to the Oxford college's benefit. It's clear Harrys has no stomach for this position.

His words come slow and awkward that day, his mind caught halfway between Lesnes and all the papers he is writing and arranging for the business of the cardinal's school at Ipswich. He thinks, high tide must have arrived. Even if a temporary seal -- some wood, some mud, some stones, whatever is traditional here -- is placed across the breach, can it hold against the river's full strength?

Judith Greene's daughter peers around the doorframe, dark eyes framed by ash-blonde hair. "Master Cromwell?"

He turns in his borrowed chair, sets down his pen. "Yes?"

She watches him sideways, warily, poised half on the edge of motion. "My mum and your man are back from Erith with the sheep. She says I can bring bread and soup if you like. Do you like?" He wonders when she learned fear, and from whom. Anne does not wear that look. Nor does little Grace, for all he thinks she sometimes sees him as half a stranger. He hopes they never do.

"Yes, I do like," he says.

When the girl brings him a bowl and a thick slab of bread, brown but not coarse, he stands and moves aside so she can set the food on the desk without drawing too near to him. He keeps his hands in view, open and empty as he says, "I have two girls your age, Anne and Grace. You remind me a little of them. What's your name?"

She bites her lip. "Katherine. For the--" She breaks off.

"For the queen," he says. "A fine name. Thank you for the soup, Katherine, and tell the same to your mother. If they need help with the carving, I can lend a hand."

She skitters out the door.

\-----

Rafe, Harrys, and the workers return as the sun starts to drown in the southwest, red and weary after its day's journey. A messenger arrives hot on their heels, bearing letters from London and Richmond: his own business and the cardinal's. Most likely the rider passed his own letter on the road, all unknowing.

He invites everyone indoors, ignoring Harrys's silent protest. The men shove the tables and bedding back against the walls; even so, there is barely room for all to stand. Everything smells of mud and sweat and ice. Judith Greene brings out the roast mutton, along with bread and ale. It's not fancy, but it's food and it's hot, and that's more than he had some days as a boy. It's all in what you're used to, he thinks.

"How was it?" he asks Rafe.

"Interesting. The first thing is to block the breach with stones and wood while a new gate is made. Then, once the water isn't pouring in, ditches and time will take care of the flood," Rafe says. "We made a good start today, but it feels futile to fight the river itself."

"Men have fought that war for centuries. We're standing on the land they won," he says. Then he raises his voice to address the whole of the hall. "You'll be paid for today's work, and tomorrow's as well -- provided you return and work."

"And you'll feed us again on our own sheep, like as not," a short, wiry man says. "Aye, we'll come. The river's cunning and the tide is strong, but I won't be driven from my home by a spot of water."

"Says you who moan at every drop of rain," another man says, to general laughter.

"Come back at dawn," he says. "Until then, look to your own homes and fields."

"Spend all day digging and now it's go home and dig more in the dark," Bledding says dourly. "It's a judgment, that's what it is. Punishment."

"Maybe so, maybe not. Who are we to interpret God's mind?" he asks. "Tomorrow. Dawn. A shilling to everyone who comes, as surety of your full wages."

"As you say," Bledding agrees. He claps his hands and raises his own voice in turn. "Come on, shake your legs, look lively, there's work to do before the morning." Slowly the men follow the master of the works out into the twilit frost.

Rafe closes the door behind them.

As the latch clicks, Harrys speaks. "Cromwell, a word. This is my house--"

"This is the cardinal's house, which you hold at his pleasure," he interrupts. "Those are the cardinal's men, just as much as you and I. They are saving the cardinal's lands. Don't put them off, now that I've encouraged them to help."

"Bribed, more like," Harrys says.

"Whatever works," he says mildly. "When the clerks return, we should calculate the damages and the likely cost of repairs. Until then, I have business to attend to." He holds up the sheaf of letters as proof. "Rafe, go ask Judith Greene if she could use any help. We're making extra work and we ought to do what we can to lighten the burden."

Rafe nods.

There is a brief flurry of motion in the kitchen door: Katherine Greene ducking out of sight.

\-----

Shillings duly dispensed, Rafe and Harrys accompany the workers to the river again in the morning, hoping the gray sky does not change to rain. Meanwhile he confers with the clerks; they agree the damages will cost at least 100£ to repair. The question is whether the funds should come from Wolsey himself, or from his colleges. Wolsey will dislike any diversion of money from his foundations, but owning land brings duties as well as profit. The college should pay.

He drafts a rough copy of a letter to the cardinal laying out that position.

Katherine Greene slips in, mouse-like, to deposit bread and mutton stew. The clerks ignore her. He frowns, then corrects his face to a smile when she steps back. "Thank you," he says. She bobs her head and vanishes.

He sets the clerks to organize the accounts for the cardinal's eyes and turns to his own work. Deeds of gift and release handing to Wolsey all outside interests in the late monasteries of Felixstowe, Rumburgh, and Bromehill. Wolsey's deed of gift handing those same monasteries to his Ipswich college. The king's letters patent assenting to the suppression of those monasteries, assenting to the pope's bull of exemption for the college, and assenting to the impropriation of the benefices that belonged to those late monasteries. Sundry other deeds of gift, less immediately relevant to St. Mary's college and its foundation, but nonetheless important to handle promptly.

He leaves aside the letters relating to his own business and legal practice, and the correspondence from friends abroad. He'll attend to those matters in the evening.

Time passes. His fingers cramp around his pen, and his eyes ache from the weak, wintry light. He leans back in the chair, stretches, and looks around, thinking he must have a candle to hand.

He surprises Katherine Greene sitting in the doorway, hands busy with a needle and some mending.

"Hello, Katherine," he says as she bolts to her feet and hesitates, poised to flee.

Slowly, she settles. She says, "Master Cromwell." She ventures a half step into the room.

"How goes your day?"

She shrugs, ducks her head. "I cleaned out the mud, supper's cooking, my mother is spinning. There's nothing much to do." She glances sideways at the desk, the stacks of paper, the ink and pen. "And your day, sir? How does it go?"

"Slowly, with much frustration," he says. Katherine glances at the desk again, takes another step into the room. He thinks, Anne looks at my work that way, when she is done with her lessons and eager for more to learn. He thinks, no one has thought to teach this girl, or even ask if she wants to learn. He thinks, Gregory never yearned to understand the language of letters and figures. What makes some people hungry and others indifferent?

Thomas More has had his daughter learn Greek and Latin; had her study until her scholarship impresses bishops, as he never tires of relating with a little laugh. If Margaret Roper can learn Greek, surely any man's daughter can learn her own language. English is good enough for the law, and other things besides.

He thinks, reading is a weapon. This girl should not be left defenseless.

"Can you read?" he asks.

Katherine shakes her head, then nods, then shakes her head again. "Not much. My name. My mum's name. My dad, he knew his letters. When he had a good day, when he wasn't--" She stops.

"Would you like to learn more?"

She takes another step, hand clenched on the fabric of her mending. "Would you--?"

"I'm not trained as a tutor, but I can serve for an afternoon." He has listened to enough of Anne's lessons, in his spare moments between business and travel, to manage that much.

Katherine reaches the desk. She sets the mending on the window seat and meets his eyes straight-on. Her own are dark, and fierce despite the fear.

She says, "Yes."

\-----

The next day he sends Wolsey's clerks to Richmond, sends Harrys's clerks to assess any changes to the extent of the flooding, and spends the morning writing out the alphabet and some basic grammar exercises for Katherine to practice copying once he is gone. Numbers are trickier, since there are two systems, but he does his best to explain both Roman and Arabic.

He thinks, I would ask Harrys or his clerks to teach her, but I don't think she would stand for it. Nor would they; they haven't time. Perhaps one of the local priests? He files the question for later, when he himself has time to find an answer.

For now, all he can offer is hope. "When you are older, you can come to London," he says. "I'll help you find a place."

Katherine clutches her sheaf of exercises to her chest, eyes wide. "Me? To London?" She sounds as if the city is as holy and difficult to reach as Jerusalem, or perhaps a pit of vipers that might devour her alive. The line between horror and reverence can be hard to discern.

"London," he says. "It hasn't killed me yet, nor my daughters. You could do well for yourself."

He thinks, you certainly could do no worse than your namesake, these days. The queen fights valiantly for her marriage and her rights, but the king will not be denied, nor will Anne Boleyn. One way or another, the tide is changing; the old ebbs out and the new seeps in.

"I'll remember," says Katherine Greene.

At noon he packs his bags and rides out to the breach to check the progress of the work. He is no expert, but he knows his way around a shovel, a hammer, and a forge. He can speak this language as well as any other, and ensure the right tools are in the right men's hands when needed. He shadows the master of the works, asks questions, answers others, commiserates: how do you set the foundations of a sluice gate, what's the best form for writing an expense account, some men couldn't find the sky itself if you didn't tell them to look up, to say nothing of the right place to swing a hammer.

After an hour or so Bledding begins to warm from his dislike. "I still say you did the devil's work, turning out our monks, but you're a canny one for all that," he says. "Mutton again tonight?"

"You're at Mistress Greene's mercy there. I only told her to feed you. The choice of meal is in her hands," he says.

"Judith will do right by us, even if she does work for that flea-bitten swindler Harrys. Not her fault she thought she'd nowhere else to go. My Jenny says that Judith said, when she came to Erith to buy the sheep, that you're not all bad," Bledding tells him.

"High flattery," he says.

Bledding laughs. "Judith sees clear enough, even if she did choose the wrong man -- chose wrong twice, no less."

He thinks, she has a roof over her head and a promising daughter; many choices turn out worse. But he says only, "You have things well in hand here. I've sent to London to arrange the wages, and I'll write to his grace the cardinal about payment for the materials and the damages."

"Now Harrys, he said the same. We didn't believe him. You, though, you have a way of making a man believe you'll keep your word. Kept it so far, haven't you?" Bledding looks out over the embankment, at the men pounding rows of posts into the mud and piling stones and earth between the temporary walls. "Who knows how bad things might have got if we'd waited even longer?"

"Best not to borrow trouble," he advises. He raises his voice. "Rafe! Leave off, we're heading back to London."

Rafe passes his hammer to someone and scrambles up from the muck. "Did the cardinal send for you?" he says.

"Not since he last sent for me. As we're already late, I see no reason to keep him waiting longer."

"Patience does every man some good," Bledding says. "Even a cardinal. Even a king."

"Dangerous words."

Bledding shakes his head. His narrow, pox-scarred face creaks into a smile. "True words. But I wager you won't pass them on. Now get out of my way if you're not going to lend a hand."

He laughs. "I'll leave you to your business, Master Bledding."

The sky is blue and clear, like a hard glass bowl dropped over the wintry earth. The white-gold sun strikes blinding reflections from the flooded fields. Black-headed gulls wheel overhead, screaming down at the human intrusion into their domain, and the wind whips through the brown and tattered grass. As he and Rafe walk away from the breach, along the embankment and above the flood, they hear the steady noise of hammers and voices raised against the river's ceaseless rush: human will imposing order on the chaos of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I have never before wanted to make a bibliography for fanfiction, but I did a lot of research for this story and would like to cite my sources! The two most important are Roger Merriman's _Life and Letters of Thomas Cromwell_ , from which I got the text of Cromwell's letter to Stephen Gardiner about the Lesnes Abbey flood, and James Galloway's article "'Piteous and Grievous sights': The Thames Marshes at the Close of the Middle Ages," which can be found [here](http://www.academia.edu/940300/Piteous_and_grievous_sights_the_Thames_marshes_at_the_close_of_the_middle_ages).
> 
> Others I found useful for general background information include Derek Wilson's _In the Lion's Court: Power, Ambition, and Sudden Death in the Reign of Henry VII_ ; Geoffrey Hindley's _England in the Age of Caxton_ (which is about the 1400s, but rural life changes slowly); and the works of G. R. Elton, particularly _Reform and Renewal: Thomas Cromwell and the Common Weal_ , which contains a reference to the Lesnes Abbey flood that got me interested in that incident. (In fairness, I should also mention Robert Hutchinson's _Thomas Cromwell: The Rise and Fall of Henry VIII's Most Notorious Minister_ , which quotes a section of Cromwell's letter and was thus the other reason I decided to look into Lesnes Abbey, but that book is actively terrible and you should not read it.)
> 
> The [Lucey & Lucy Family History](http://homepage.ntlworld.com/rickmansworthherts/webpage67.htm) site contains a helpful diagram of Lesnes Abbey; [The Heritage Trail](http://www.theheritagetrail.co.uk/abbeys/lesnes%20abbey.htm) claims that the abbey had fallen into disrepair before its suppression; the story of monks fishing from the abbey walls comes from [Trust Thamesmead](http://www.trust-thamesmead.co.uk/sub_page.cfm/editID/200/title/Lesnes%20Abbey/section/history); and [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lesnes_Abbey) explains the survival of the abbot's lodging.
> 
> My information on medieval marsh drainage techniques comes largely from two sources: [an English Heritage pdf file](http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/publications/iha-roman-medieval-sea-river-flood-defences/romanandmedievalseariverflooddefences.pdf) and _Water Management in the English Landscape: Field, Marsh and Meadow_ (Hadrian F. Cook, Tom Williamson, eds.), specifically "Chapter 9: Medieval reclamation of marsh and fen" by Robert Silvester, available via Google Books ([link to preview](http://books.google.com/books?id=ydXFAm75n0IC&pg=PA141&lpg=PA141&dq=medieval+marsh+drainage&source=bl&ots=LRMWKqMduI&sig=wpDfnlUacm8aBnLETne7JBIjdaQ&hl=en&sa=X&ei=ITqyUuirMc6-sQTG74LwAw&ved=0CD0Q6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=medieval%20marsh%20drainage&f=false)). There is also a useful mention of hinged sluice gates in _Medieval Science, Technology, and Medicine: An Encyclopedia_ (Thomas F. Glick, Steven John Livesey, Faith Wallis, eds.) specifically in the following excerpt available via Google books: ([link to preview](http://books.google.com/books?id=SaJlbWK_-FcC&pg=PA274&lpg=PA274&dq=medieval+marsh+drainage&source=bl&ots=7lmkPoK72E&sig=jkACJccaSmKEklb6vXtGEdptCUk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=ITqyUuirMc6-sQTG74LwAw&ved=0CDUQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=medieval%20marsh%20drainage&f=false)).
> 
> I should note that there was another breach of the embankment shortly after Cromwell departed, causing even more damage; the eventual cost estimate was at least 300£. Cromwell's letter to Gardiner implies that he then returned to Lesnes to keep an eye on the repairs and help as he was able. Also of minor interest: I have dated this story 1529, in keeping with the modern method of reckoning the change of year, though contemporary dating would have placed this in 1528 since the change of year happened on March 25 ([Lady Day](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Day)) rather than January 1.
> 
> William Harrys managed the former abbey lands for at least some time after 1525; I could not verify whether he was still there in 1529, nor do I know anything about his household or character (beyond his complaint that the locals disliked him) but it seemed simplest not to invent a new person to fill that role. Likewise, there was a master of the works involved in the repair effort, which we know because he sent a letter to Cromwell -- presumably about the second breach -- but I couldn't find a name or any other information about him. Rafe Sadler may or may not have accompanied Cromwell on some of his business trips, but as this is fanfic of a historical novel wherein Rafe is an important secondary character, I figured I might as well use him. Judith Greene and her daughter Katherine are entirely fictional.


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